


between the moon and the stars

by llassah



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: rs_games, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2689781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llassah/pseuds/llassah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer before their sixth year, and everything changes and stays the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between the moon and the stars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 rs_games, for the prompt: "I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. I want to dip my toes in the water, to dangle my feet off the edge of the dock and sit leaning forward, looking at you, laughing till our stomachs hurt, that’s the summer I’ve always dreamt about."

The oak tree is the biggest in the wood, its trunk so broad it would take six men to span it with their arms. It makes the heavy iron chains his father heaves into the clearing seem delicate, for all that they’re the thickest he can buy, goblin made with cunning locks and sturdy links. They’re oiled, and the dirt clings to them, speckling the sheen of the metal with flecks of brown. They sound ominous in the still air. His da doesn’t speak as he takes off his t shirt and shorts, his socks and daps, just looks down at his hands, the clinking chains, only looks up when Remus is in his boxers, slightly knock-kneed, the breeze stirring the smattering of chest hairs he’s managed to grow.

“I’ll be fine,” Remus says, and his da nods, smiles.

“Of course you will. We Lupins always are,” he says, with a slight twist to his lips. The sun is in his eyes, turning them the same odd amber as Remus’s, making him look feral, just for a few seconds, before he blinks and looks back down at his hands, the cold, heavy iron. They don’t speak as he wraps the chains three times around the tree, then snaps the manacles shut around Remus’s wrists. His da kisses him on the forehead, tells him to be good. Remus lets himself lean back against the oak, the bark warm and rough against his back. Sinks down to the ground, and watches his da leave, his feet hardly making a sound.

The sun has warmed the ground, made the leaves smell rich and dark, the mulch in the roots full of life and decay. The sun turns the floor a dappled green, casts long shadows as it sets. He can feel the tug of the moon already, but he keeps breathing deeply, determined to resist for as long as he can. He can’t hear any birds. They tend to leave, when they sense him. He can see a doe in the distance, but she freezes as soon as the breeze carries his scent to her, darts away, hooves fluttering on the soft ground. He trails his fingers along the ground and waits for the moon.

He must drop off into a light doze, because the next thing he knows it’s dusk, and his skin itches, and he’s being watched, and—

“ _Sirius_ ,” he breathes, the chains singing as he sits up, bare feet scrabbling on the ground, grass cool with the dew, damp and cold on his skin. “Sirius, James, you—”

He stops, wants to run his hand through his hair but can’t, can’t lift his arm because of the chains, and things are becoming blood-tinged, his heart turning to something monstrous. James stands, his feet broadly planted, his hands in his pockets. Sirius leans against a tree, the lines of his body tired, back curved. As ever, he wants to set his teeth very precisely in the juncture between Sirius’s neck and his shoulder, to hold him there and take, and take. As ever, he represses the urge, because those thoughts belong to the moon, because he also wants to hold his hand and kiss the soft inside of his wrist, to be gentle, so gentle. He wants to hunt down a brace of rabbits, to lay a doe at his feet and he doesn’t know what he wants any more, not when the moon is fat, tugging at him, deep enough to shake his bones.

“You should go. I can’t—I’ll hurt you,” he pants, straining against the tree, blood trickling down his wrists as he thrashes back and forth, his back arching, feet clawing in the ground. He can smell their fear, the scent bitter at the back of his throat. They don’t move, though, and it’s so much like being at the shack that he wants to cry, mourns for the loss of the forest, where he ran free and wild. He closes his eyes, teeth gritting on a howl as his bones break and reform, as the goblinmade shackles expand with his monstrous hulking form, the oak standing firm and tall even as the bark splinters and yields to the iron. He keeps his eyes closed as he surrenders to the moon, and knows no more.

*

When he wakes up, James is frying bacon on a small fire, the battered copper pan glinting in the sunlight. Sirius is sitting on a broad, flat stone a few feet away, poking at the ground with a stick. Remus blinks a few times, swallows until he can speak. “My shackles—did I?” he can’t quite articulate the question, not when he can taste blood at the back of his throat, not when the chains lie snaking across the ground.

“Quiet as a lamb, Moony. They slipped off when the moon went down,” James says, smiling across at him, his eyes slightly reddened with smoke. “Made a hell of a clatter, too—Pads nearly wet himself.”

Sirius flicks a clod of dirt up with the stick, winks at Remus when James ducks a second too late. “Lies and infamy,” he declares. Remus considers going back to sleep, but the bacon is too tempting and the thick slabs of buttered bread look soft enough to sleep on. “I think you need a brew, mate,” Sirius says, eyes sharp, assessing in a way that always slightly unnerves him. Remus blinks, nods, rotating his wrists gingerly, trying to get his aching body moving again. He never feels quite so much like prey as he does the morning after a full moon. He’s stronger than humans, faster, can see better, hear better, smell better. Guards his strength and takes care of how he touches. Here, though, he’s shaky as a newborn foal. He rolls over onto his back, winces as his barkgrazed skin makes contact with the grass. When he opens his eyes, Sirius is there, offering him a hand. His skin is warm, and Remus aches for more of his touch, used to cling to his mam for the whole day after the moon, dogging her footsteps, a quiet, tired child.

“Hey,” Sirius says softly. They’re still holding hands. “Hey,” he says again, pulls him closer, gives him one of those brief, tight hugs, is about to pull away when Remus just sags into it, can’t help it. He lets himself have this indulgence, just for now. Sirius smells of laundry powder, the aftershave he keeps insisting he needs. Sweat, underneath it, traces of spunk. Something more animal, too, for the dog he carries under his skin now. Sirius’s hands move restlessly on his back, seeking unbroken patches of skin to rest on. “Hey,” he says again. “I—I left them. I left _her_ ,” he whispers. “I couldn’t—a whole summer, Moony. In that house.”

Remus steps closer, presses their bodies together fully, closes his eyes. He should say something, maybe. Doesn’t know what. “I had wondered why you were here,” he says at last, ignoring the way Sirius’s laugh sounds more like a sob. “Just for the summer?” he asks, but he knows the answer. All those unopened letters, the howlers. The way little Regulus had been used like a messenger, poor dutiful son that he was. Sirius had thrown himself into work, girls, the animagus transformation, had explored the castle from top to bottom, relentless as a terrier after a rabbit. Remus still doesn’t know what to say.

They stay there until James clears his throat, step back from each other. He can’t meet Sirius’s eyes, pulls on his clothes, even if his skin is tacky with dried blood. James pours the thermos full of tea into little tin mugs, hands them bacon sandwiches, dripping with fat, too hot to eat. They eat anyway, fingers slick with grease, mouths shining with it, lie on the grass when they’ve finished, the smoke from the fire drifting in the still morning air. Remus counts the clouds, and listens to them breathing, the soft swishing of their hearts, all that blood in their veins, air in their lungs.

*

They’re gone when his da gets there with a blanket. “Good moon, son?” he asks. Remus nods, lets his da put the blanket over his shoulders, helps him unwind the chains from the oak. “The Potters invited us to supper,” his da says as they walk back to the cottage. “You could—you know their son, don’t you? It would be good for you to keep up with him. And I think his friend is there—I mean, he’s one of Walpurga’s sons, but he can’t be all bad, can he?”

Remus runs his fingers along the fringe of the blanket. “No, he has his moments,” he says, turning to hide his smile.

*

The Potters live half a mile away. Here, that’s neighbours. Their house nestles into the hillside, a stream running down the garden to the river below. A half hour scramble and you’re up by the lake, or down by the river. The Potters themselves are kind and quiet, respectable. The sort who fought Grindelwald, but quietly. James’s mother was a spy of some kind, but she never really talks about it, even though she won the national duelling championships three times running, can throw a knife at thirty paces. She’s just quietly competent, peaceful to be around. Mam is intimidated by her, by the neatness of her garden, by the honeysuckle that twines around the front porch, by the way she once shielded a whole village from an air raid with a single impedimentia charm. Da kisses her whenever she admits to it, dances her around the kitchen until she’s laughing again, calling him a silly goose.

Mam can set bones better than Madam Pomfrey, has borne the burden of successive full moons, kept their secret in a gossiping village. Mam makes spag bol the way he likes it, was brave enough to send him to school, makes him honey and lemon when he has a cold. He kisses her on the cheek as they walk up the garden path, his da carrying a tiramisu in a large glass bowl and a bottle of pudding wine. She’s still smiling at him when the door opens, her cheeks a little pink, eyes full and soft. When Mrs Potter smiles at her, she smiles back. When he catches Sirius’s eye, Sirius winks, his face full of secrets. Remus doesn’t wink back. Doesn’t need to.

*

“A whole summer,” Sirius murmurs. James is trying to master the telephone, marched off to the village phonebox with a pocket full of muggle money and a heart full of determination. Remus looks over, unwilling to move too much. The day is hot, sticky. It feels like a storm is coming; all the old aches and breaks are gnawing at his bones. “I’m free.”

Remus lets his eyes slide shut, smiles. “There’s still homework,” he says, lets Sirius pin him and knuckle his head, goes all limp and pliant at the warm press of his body. Sirius shifts into his dogshape, licks a long line up his cheek, huffs out a sound that could be a laugh. Remus lets him, the ache in his bones shifting to something softer, more contented. The sun breaks through the clouds, warms his skin. The stone is hot beneath his back, and the water laps at the shores of the lake. He curls his toes, stretches through his legs, his joints clicking back into place as Sirius shifts back into his human form.

“But a summer, Moony. A whole summer. We could…we can do anything,” Sirius says, and his smile is big and bright, beautiful in a way Remus can’t quite articulate. It’s the smile that makes him brave, the smile and the heat of the day that makes him reach out, tug him down and kiss him, eager and clumsy. Sirius’s lips are soft. He tastes a little of honey, of the peculiar coffee he likes that’s made of acorns. He kisses like he’s been expecting to for a long time, kisses boldly, with a smile curving his lips. “We could do this all summer,” he murmurs, his smile all promise. “Bugger the homework.”

*  
They swim in the lake that night, the moonlight turning the water black and silver, the rocks at the shoreline stark and jagged. The water is cold, soft as silk on his skin. Sirius keeps diving underwater, picking up stones and letting them drop to the bottom again. James is off by the waterfall, howling for the echo, his voice muffled by the crashing water. He’s happy to just drift, to lie on his back, kicking up when he starts to sink. Fish brush past him, swift and sinuous. He keeps wanting to chase them, wants to present them to Sirius, throw them at his feet. This thing between them feels fragile, still. He wants to hold hands. Wants other, darker things. Sirius gives his affection boldly, carelessly. He’s just learning how to do that.

A hand grasps his ankle, pulls him out of his thoughts. He takes a deep breath, allows himself to be pulled down into the blackness, captures Sirius, locks his legs around him as they play, sleek as otters in the water. Sirius comes up laughing, his hair covering his eyes, dripping down his face. He doesn’t try and break free, doesn’t even test Remus’s hold on him. It makes it easier to set his teeth very gently on the muscle in his shoulder, to map out the place where he wants to bite down and pin. His skin is wet and cool. He doesn’t taste of anything. They’re both hard, hips jerking in the water, their cocks twitching and flexing in their swimming trunks. Remus keeps his teeth there, just a gentle hold, lets his hips roll against Sirius’s until they’re both gasping, their hands feverish on each other’s skin. They rut up against each other until they come, quiet as they can, eyes closed as they try not to drown.

*

They pick wild raspberries, stain their lips red with the juice, scratch their bare arms and legs with the briars and brambles. Sirius crushes a raspberry in his fingers, paints a sticky line down Remus’s nose, expression intent as he draws. Next he paints his cheeks, then his forehead, then he drags his thumb across Remus’s lower lip. Remus watches, mesmerised, sucks Sirius’s thumb into his mouth, lets him press them both up against a tree, slides his hands up under Sirius’s t shirt and strokes clumsy fingers over his nipples, again and again until they’re coming, sticky, in their shorts. Remus does more laundry than he has in years, walks around in a daze of arousal.

He has to wank twice during his potions homework, three times during his transfiguration essay. Each time, it’s Sirius behind his tightly shut eyelids. Sometimes it’s all of him, sometimes the flash of a smile, the way he goes quiet and still after an orgasm. Sometimes it’s the thought, eventually, of sex, actual sex in a bed. He tries to use hai karate to conceal the scent of spunk in his room, but it makes him sneeze so much he knocks his head against the bedside table and he has to open the window to fumigate.

*

They never make it to a bed. It’s always rushed handjobs, breathless frotting up against each other. They kiss, and kiss, until their lips tingle and their blood feels syrup slow with arousal. James doesn’t notice, is too caught up with Lily, writes her long letters in his chickenscratch scrawl, then burns the letters, lighting the match with careful precision. They feel like a secret, tug each other into quiet corners, go deep into the woods until the trees are dark and looming, brambles blocking the old paths around boulders that look as if they were dropped there. They kiss, and talk, kiss some more. Sirius tastes of jam sometimes, tea other times. He sucks on cough sweets, even when he doesn’t have a cough, wafts clouds of menthol in his wake. Some days, he’s quiet and sad, other days bright, in this manic sort of way. They build a treehouse, even though they’re both too old for it. They sleep up there one night. It reminds him of Hogwarts, of the shack, the floors uneven and creaking. Here, he has Sirius and James, though. Here, he can share a blanket, share warmth. They tell each other stories, make idle plans. Sneak kisses when James is asleep.

*

He never wants the summer to end. There are rumours, dark rumours. There’s a new year, another year of being worried about hurting people, of worrying about exams and essays, of watching James’s optimism in the face of Lily’s scorn. A year of wanting his mam to come and make everything better and wishing he didn’t. He tries to tell James and Sirius this, writes long letters to Peter trying to put this into words. He never quite manages it. He wants to grasp onto every second, every kiss. He watches the flames of the bonfire and wishes he could stop time and stay there with his friends. He basks in the heat, and listens to James and Sirius argue about marshmallows. Looks up at the stars, and knows for certain that he’s exactly where he wants to be, that his skin feels right over his bones.

The moon is a crescent, and he can just see the soft swell of the dark, hidden part of it, the part that tugs at his bones, makes his blood sing with it. It’s never truly gone, this urge, this draw, the poison in his soul. But in the warmth of the flames, with the sparks shooting up to meet the stars as the lake laps at the stones, he smiles up at it. Lets his friends anchor him to this moment, to this home.


End file.
